23 May 2024

William Wordsworth and the Power of a Peculiar Eye

William Wordsworth and 
his green-tinted spectacles [1]
 
'With an inflamed eye, and joy in our hearts, we see into the life of things ...'
 
 
I. 
 
I didn't know, until Chloe told me, that Wordsworth had trouble with his eyes and that his poetic vision was to some extent shaped by the peculiarities of his physical vision:  

"Whether the visible world projected itself more sharply, richly, insistently, upon the eye of Wordsworth than upon that of Dante, Milton, Keats, or Shelley, we cannot know; but from what he tells us we do know that his visual impressions were of a very special intensity, and such as come to few beholders on this earth." [2]
 
In other words, it seems that due to the corruption of an organic function by disease - which not only made him unusually sensitive to light, but left him at times almost unable to see - Wordsworth was able to produce an imaginative body of work of unusual beauty.
 
Of course, having trouble with one's eyes and living in fear of blindness, is not fun; nor does it always have a positive effect on one's work. And I speak here from personal experience; there are times when I am unable to either read or write due to acute eyestrain and impaired vision. 
 
 
II.    
 
Wordsworth first began to have trouble with his eyes in January 1805, when trachoma caused an inflammation of his eyelids [3]. Five years later, first in the summer and then in the winter of 1810, he suffered two further outbreaks of the infection. 
 
Luckily, things cleared up - though it's worth keeping in mind there were no modern drugs or antibiotics available at this time (people relied on various folk remedies - such as holding a blue gemstone to the eyes). 
 
In 1820, however, the problem returned and Wordsworth genuinely worried he would go blind like his hero, Milton [4]. However, this did at least focus his attention and encouraged him to get a move on with the publication of his poetry. 
 
As attacks became more frequent and severe, he started to wear green tinted eye-glasses [5] to protect his eyes from bright light and any dust that might blow in his face. 
 
This seemed to do the trick, as things again improved and it wasn't until 1833 that one of his eyes - not just the lid - became infected; a far more serious concern, that rightly left him feeling extremely anxious about the darkness to come. News of this even made the papers of the time - obliging Wordsworth to issue a press release denying the false claim he had gone blind. 

His family were, arguably, not quite as understanding as they might have been: 
 
"A letter dated December 29th 1834 from William's nephew, Chris, to his father (William's brother) reads: 'My Uncle's eyes are … much better, indeed they would be quite well, if he did not write verses: but this he will do; and therefore it is extremely difficult to prevent him from ruining his eyesight'." [6]
 
Six years later, even his wife Mary was writing that "'tho' he labours in constant fear of his eyes and complains of discomfort from them - yet in reality he has had very little suffering'" [7]

I have to say, I find this apparent lack of sympathy from his nearest and dearest all a bit troubling; even if the inflammation of his eyelids wasn't quite as serious as he thought, his fear of blindness and physical discomfort was surely genuine. 

Even more shocking - to me at least - is the fact that the commentator who quotes these letters concludes his (otherwise informative) piece on Wordsworth and his ocular issues with this dismissive (almost sneering) remark.
 
"Mary's comment in 1840 acts, I think, as a caution as we assess the severity of Wordsworth's eye trouble. While Wordsworth suffered from a very real affliction, his wife's remark tells us that maybe it was not always as severe as the poet made out. This could be expected from a man of artistic temperament who was also very anxious about his illness." [8]    
 
 
Notes
 
[1] The glasses are on display at Wordsworth's home in the Lake District, Dove Cottage (Grasmere). For details, visit the Wordsworth Trust website: click here.  
 
[2] Marian Mead, 'Wordsworth's Eye', PMLA, Vol. 34, No. 2 (1919), pp. 202-224. Click here for open access on JSTOR.
 
[3] Trachoma is an infectious disease caused by a bacterium. It damages the inner surface of the eyelids and can lead to pain and even permanent blindness if left untreated and one is unfortunate enough to experience repeated infections. Although it is often categorised as a neglected tropical disease, it is known to infect tens of millions of people in developing regions and is a recognised public health issue in over forty countries.    
 
[4] John Milton had become totally blind in both eyes by 1652 (i.e., fifteen years before the first publication of Paradise Lost). The cause of his blindness is debated, but bilateral retinal detachment or glaucoma seem to be the most likely explanations. His sightlessness forced him to dictate his verse and prose to secretarial assistants (amanuenses) who transcribed the work for him.  
 
[5] Again, without wanting to make this all about me, I sympathise here; following surgery on my right eye to restore vision following damage to my cornea (probably as the result of an ealier infection), I had to wear similarly shaded glasses for several months. Luckily, this was during the punk period in the late 1970s, so they didn't attract too much attention; people thought I was just another teenage poser.
 
[6] This letter is quoted by Philip Harper, in 'William Wordsworth's glasses and the lifelong struggle with his eyesight', on the always interesting website Museum Crush: click here
 
[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid.
 
 
This post is for that phantom of delight, Chloe Rose Campbell.


2 comments:

  1. 'It seems impossible, in fact, to judge the eye using any word other than seductive, since nothing is more attractive in the bodies of animals and men. But extreme seductiveness is probably at the boundary of horror.'
    - Georges Bataille, 'Story of the Eye'

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  2. Might one venture to infer that the sympathy for WW here is in some considerable part sponsored by the writer's own issues with his eyes? Had the poet had a problem with gout, for example, one wonders whether a post would have been forthcoming. As Jung and Nietzsche both might have agreed, so much of philosophy is really semi-disguised autobiography.

    One may also think in this domain of Goethe's reported death-bed demand: 'Mehr Licht!', though I prefer Don Paterson's sublime aphorism: 'We turn from the light to see'.

    Who is Chloe, this bearer of Wordsworthian insights (weak pun intended), one wonders?

    And how does/could Marian Mead (or indeed anyone) know that WW's visions were rarely experienced by other (perhaps less writerly) beings?

    Pleas for compassion - especially in the subjective area of 1st person pain reports - seem an odd demand for a Nietzschean, who wrote in 'Daybreak' both intriguingly and rather emphatically that 'compassion [Mitleid] insofar as it really causes suffering - and this is here our only point of view - is a weakness'.

    Much as I like the proto-du Maurieresque detail of WW's green lenses, I'm not sure why you seem to be so credulous in regard to his eye complaints (and complaining) - as with any other introspective/first person reports (of pain or anything else), they're rather obviously philosophically unverifiable in the final instance. In this context, his nephew's letter mainly reads to me as (at most a little sardonically) sensible. Of course, as his family would surely know, Wordsworth couldn't help being a poet, and therein seems to lie the gentle irony of the message. As for his wife, she may well have known him better than he knew himself, as wives often will. (If this was instead Wordsworth's version of 'man flu', it sounds like she was onto him!)

    Neither do I see anything amiss in the final quoted comment
    (and what's wrong with a little sneering anyway? - which is hardly an alien projection when it comes to TTA's more sour-mouthed posts.)

    Finally, and this isn't meant unkindly, surely you might simply consider longer periods of (eye) rest, i.e. breaks from reading/writing/screenwork, in your own case? There's plenty of information about this in the medical field to readily avail of. It isn't (r)oc(ket)ular science, surely? Or are you, as one might suspect (like Wordsworth himself perhaps), somehow more attached to the 'strain' of work than its alleviation?

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